


The Light of Our Lives

by ohlookmywife



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:33:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26578384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohlookmywife/pseuds/ohlookmywife
Summary: I wrote this stoned. Forgive.
Relationships: Ferguphy, Joan Ferguson/Brenda Murphy, screak
Comments: 9
Kudos: 18





	The Light of Our Lives

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this stoned. Forgive.

Joan is washing up in the kitchen when she hears the deadbolt slide, the front door open, Brenda wiping her boots with the door ajar before crossing the threshold.

She dries her hands on a tea towel and refolds it, hangs it on the handle of the oven and tosses her salt and pepper mane over a shoulder as she heads to greet her in the entryway.

“How was –“ Joan enters talking, breathless and smiling, before her eyes fall to Brenda’s booted feet, in the house.

“I need my cigarettes,” Brenda says, unfastening a button at her collar.

“You don’t,” she says her smile fading slowly.

“Joan,” she says, low, steady, but something simmering just beneath the surface, “I need my cigarettes.” She refuses to make eye contact as she takes her keys and tosses them in a bowl on a landing strip, her wallet follows as she empties her pockets.

“You don’t.“

“Joan! For fuck’s sake. I’m not asking!”

They look at one another for a long moment, each taken aback.

“Listen,” she begins almost apologetically, but not apologetically enough, as she tosses a her grocery apron onto the bench of a waiting hall tree. “I had a shit day at work, and-“

Joan’s gaze follows the dingy apron’s arc, landing on the bench. Her eyes pan up to empty hooks, and she inhales deeply, rolls her neck.

“-Keith put up next week’s schedule, and-”

“Hang that up,” she says firmly, just loud enough to overpower the din of Brenda’s rambling.

“Excuse me?” Brenda stops, incredulous.

“Hang that,” Joan says, indicating with her eyes, “up.”

Brenda scoffs - husky, low, indignant.

She reaches past Joan and picks up the apron with one finger, casually drops its loop over one hook without breaking her stare at Joan, who is watching her work.

“Happy, dear?”

Satisfied, and ignoring the passive aggression, Joan turns her attention back to Brenda, folding her hands calmly at her waist, as if to say _as you were_.

Brenda holds out an expectant hand and bulges her eyes. “Where are they?”

Joan says nothing, choosing instead to purse her lips and run her tongue over her teeth in a manner that conveys undeniable disappointment.

“Forget it, I’ll buy more.” Brenda mutters to herself, grabbing the just discarded keys and wallet and turning back to the door.

“Hold it right there.” Joan says sternly.

She strides toward the door and leans her full weight on one firm palm against it.

“Joan, I’m not having this argument toda-“

“Up against the wall, Off-icer Murphy.”

Brenda just stands still her back to Joan, looming dangerously over her.

“Up against the wall!”

Brenda acquiesces, her chin to her chest as Joan closes the space between them, pinning Brenda to the adjacent wall by her biceps. Strong, supple hands ensnaring her, finger pads pressed firmly to the wall.

“Joan, please” she says breathily, belying her desire.

“That’s Governor Ferguson.”

Joan’s hands drop briefly, as she brings a knee up to pin Brenda between the legs. Brenda’s arm lashing out to brace herself against collapsing against Joan’s strong thigh.

Joan finds her belt loops and tugs her, knees all woozy, straighter. She looks down her nose at Brenda’s mouth falling open, her neck relaxed, her eyes tight.

“What kind of ship-,” Joan gathers the fabric of the shirt tucked at Brenda’s waist and in one gesture efficiently tugs it entirely loose, freeing her hands to undo the rest of the buttons down Brenda’s chest, “do you think is being run here, Officer Murphy.“

It’s decidedly not a question, but Brenda’s brain is shorting and she’s too dumb to know to shut up as Joan’s hands come back up to her arms, Joan leaning in, grinding into her with a muscular thigh, pressing her parted lips to collarbone as Brenda tilts her head to give Joan greater access in spite of herself

“Joa- G- Gov-“

“Yes?” Joan slows but doesn’t stop.

“I…”

“Yes?” Joan grinds harder, looking up as Brenda struggles to form words.

“I –“

Joan slips one hand down to unbutton trousers and slide a hand deftly past Brenda’s waistband, as a fervent hand comes down to stop her.

“I –“ she starts chuckling, as Joan takes a step back, one hand loosening on a bicep, one hand still inside Brenda’s clothes.

“What is it?” Joan asks, confused, concern spreading across her face.

“I – I’m sorry,” she says, still laughing, “I really… just need the cigarettes.”

Joan pulls her hand out so fast the waistband of Brenda’s underwear snaps.

“Hey!”

Joan waves at the drawer of the landing strip, “they’re in there,” as she turns on one heel, a slight breeze caused by the swiftness of the motion. She strides down the hallway affronted, annoyed.

Brenda leans over to slide the drawer open and lay her eyes upon her beloved smokes, surprised to find the pack looking, unlike herself in this moment, tidy - fully expecting Joan to have crushed it as discouragement.

“Thank youuu” she calls down an empty hallway, one hand still digging in the back of the drawer looking for a lighter.

When she finds it, she smiles, pulls it out, flicks it, admiring the flame.

“Brenda Marie Murphy! Don’t you dare light up in this house!” A disembodied voice yells from the kitchen.

Brenda palms the lighter, and, shirt still untucked, fly still undone, slips out onto their front porch for a much fiended for smoko break.


End file.
